


The Heart Has Its Reasons

by Nyssa



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's love life gets complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Has Its Reasons

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains references to non-explicit, completely consensual rough sex and crossdressing.

"Yeah," Michael whispered. "Like that."

Eric repeated his motion, a gentle roll of the hips. Nothing so special in itself; just like the best comedy, it was all in the timing.

Michael's eyes closed. "Again."

Eric laughed, with what little breath was available to him. He laughed a lot in bed with Mike. And Mike laughed so much it was ridiculous. He would dissolve into fits of mirth at the most inappropriate times; when Eric was kissing his neck, or stroking his arse, or drawing a riding crop slowly down his back. He giggled more than any girl Eric had ever slept with. Not that Eric was bothered by it. He knew it wasn't a comment on his technique. And if you couldn't have a laugh with your mates, who could you have a laugh with?

Anyway, Michael wasn't laughing now. He was turning his head from side to side on the pillow and making helpless whimpering sounds in his throat. Eric didn't blame him. Neither of them had come yet, and they'd been playing and teasing, pushing forward and pulling back, touching and testing and speeding up and slowing down for what seemed like hours. He knew it wasn't that long, really, but time had a way of flattening out when your partner insisted on practicing delayed gratification.

It was fun, though, he had to admit.

He thrust carefully once more against Mike's groin, sliding his aching cock over Mike's and feeling his head go light. He was beginning to be afraid he would black out from lack of blood flow to the brain before Michael would let him...

"Come on," Michael growled beneath him. "Hurry."

Oh God, finally. Eric groaned with relief and shoved harder. Mike pushed back desperately, pressing them closer together, digging his fingers into Eric's back.

The phone rang.

Eric froze. "Fuck!"

Michael gasped. "Yeah -- now, now --"

"No --" Eric squeezed his eyes shut and fought for control. "The phone -- might be important -- oh, shit."

Michael blinked up at him with hot, bewildered eyes, and then turned his head and looked at the bedside telephone as if he had never seen one before.

Trying not to notice the sickening twist in his stomach, Eric clambered off Michael's enticing body, snatched the receiver up, and snapped, "What?"

A familiar voice broke through the fog in his brain. "Oh," he said weakly. "Hullo, Mum."

He propped himself on one elbow, concentrated, and tried to listen to his mother. His task was made more difficult by the fact that he could feel Michael curling tightly around him from behind, shaking with (thankfully) silent laughter, pressing his mouth hard against Eric's shoulder in what Eric hoped would be a successful attempt to keep the laughter silent.

"Yes, um, I'm all right. And how are you?"

Michael's suppressed hilarity shook Eric's body from head to toe, a rather pleasant sensation, he discovered. Without thinking, he pushed back toward Michael, bringing his backside flush up against Mike's long-denied erection. He felt Michael's laughter dissolve into a deep, hungry groan.

Eric closed his eyes and spoke through clenched teeth. "Sunday? I'm -- um, yes I'm sure I can." Mike was rocking, rubbing, grinding steadily against his arse. His right hand snaked around to settle on Eric's cock, which it began pulling to the same hard rhythm. Eric gasped in mingled delight and frustration, and covered the receiver until he could speak again. "Oh, anything is great, just great. No, no, haven't had roast beef for ages. What? No, I -- I haven't got a cold, I'm just, just a bit -- um, hoarse." He drew a long, shuddering breath. "Probably the pollen."

He felt Michael's own breathing getting rapidly shallower. "I have to go now, dear, there's -- somebody coming. Yes. Yes. I'll drink tea with honey. Yes! I promise. See you Sunday. 'Bye."

He put the phone down, grabbed Michael's hand, and guided it harder, faster, until it was just too perfect, and that, combined with the sudden flood of warmth between their bodies and Mike's sharp cry of pleasure, was enough to finish him off.

They lay still for a bit, limp and sticky and panting, before Michael spoke. "Disgusting, rubbing off on you like a dog that way. Sorry. Made quite a mess, I'm afraid." Eric noticed that, in direct contrast to his apologetic words, Mike sounded mightily pleased with himself.

Eric sighed. "I love dogs."

There was a pause. Then Michael said, "A dog would lick it off, I suppose."

Eric smiled and closed his eyes. "Too right he would."

He felt Michael's weight shift behind him, and then Michael's soft, warm tongue gently bathing the skin of his arse and lower back. It felt particularly good at the very base of his spine, but not as good as it felt a moment later when it probed delicately between his cheeks. Eric's lips parted of their own accord, and he heard a soft purring begin in his throat.

"Got to make a good job of it," Mike whispered. "'S the least I can do."

He tugged Eric gently onto his back and set to work on his belly and chest. Eric wove his fingers into Michael's hair and came to the steadfast conclusion, not for the first time, that there was nothing in life he would rather do than anything Michael wanted to do with him.

After a blissful interlude, Michael raised his head and smiled into Eric's eyes. He looked dreamy, Eric thought with amusement; almost stoned.

"Yours tastes better than mine," Mike said. He even sounded stoned.

Eric grinned. "Comes of clean living, mate. No wine, no women, no song. Follow my example, and you'll live to be a hundred."

"What a load of utter, unmitigated bollocks," Michael whispered, and kissed him. Eric sucked inquisitively at Michael's tongue. It didn't taste bad, at that.

Mike was beginning to moan softly again as they lost themselves in each other's mouths. Reluctantly, Eric broke the kiss and turned his head. "Jesus, Mike. I need to rest for a bit."

Michael looked disappointed. "How long?"

"Just for a bit. You know it doesn't take me long."

Mike sighed and rolled onto his back. "We haven't got long. I have to go soon."

Eric snorted. "You're the one wanted us to spend all afternoon torturing each other. Bloody hell, why did you want to wait forever to come, anyway? It bloody _hurts_."

Michael cocked an eye at him. "Why'd you go along with it?"

"Well," Eric began, and trailed off for a moment before shrugging weakly. "Doesn't hurt _that_ much."

"A fine, thin line," Michael murmured, as though talking to himself, and smiled up at the ceiling. "You know it is. And if you can find exactly where the line is, then you know yourself. It's important to know yourself."

"You're sick," Eric said, with warm affection. "And you're so _quiet_ about it. I mean, I used to think you were a nice, innocent lad from Yorkshire. Then I find out you like all sorts of kinky things." He sighed happily. "It's fucking brilliant."

Mike lifted Eric's arm and arranged it comfortably around himself. "I even liked that call from your mum," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Bloody exciting, when you're afraid someone's going to find out."

"I suppose so."

"Think she heard anything?"

Eric shook his head decisively. "No, I'd have been able to tell from her voice. She doesn't know I've ever been with a bloke, and certainly not with you." He rolled his eyes. "She thinks you're adorable. She tells me that every week after she watches the show. She calls you 'that sweet young man with the lovely dimples.'"

Michael looked so surprised and delighted at this that Eric had a prime opportunity to observe the lovely dimples at close range. "She doesn't mind the rudeness, then? It's a big difference from _Do Not Adjust Your Set_."

"Oh, she minds, just not enough to stop watching." Eric shrugged, a bit self-consciously. "She's proud, I suppose."

Mike smiled again. "My mum watches, too." He sighed. "My dad hates it."

Eric was silent. He knew Michael didn't particularly like talking about his dad.

"Eric?"

Eric grunted softly in response.

"What do you think would happen if people found out about you and me?"

Eric turned to look at him. "Please don't tell me you're going to ring up me mum and say 'Hullo Mrs. Idle, thank you for raising such a lovely boy and incidentally I'm having it off with him in naughty and exotic fashion at every opportunity, cheerio!' are you?"

Mike blinked innocently. "You don't want me to?" At Eric's murderous expression, he dropped the act and laughed. "I didn't mean her. I meant the lads."

Eric yawned. "You know them as well as I do. John would be as awful as possible about it, Graham would beg to get in on it, Terry G would smile and be all live and let live, and -- " He stopped abruptly as an unpleasant thought struck him.

Michael had been grinning appreciatively at his descriptions. At the pause, he poked Eric in the ribs. "Go on, go on. And..."

Eric smiled wryly. "And Terry J would have my balls on a platter for touching his precious."

Michael stared at him. "What?"

"Oh, come on, Mike. Surely you knew." He considered for a moment. "Well, maybe not. Perhaps you're too close to him to see it."

Mike looked genuinely astounded. "But he doesn't -- he's never --"

Eric shrugged. "I don't know if he's ever. But he wants to."

"With _me_?"

"Yeah, with you. I could tell it the first time I ever saw you and him together. Remember? At that first meeting we had with Frost? He never took his eyes off you. He still does that. Watches you all the time."

Michael was silent for a while, apparently absorbing this information. Then he said, "Maybe we could -- you know -- invite him along."

Eric laughed helplessly. And people thought _he_ was slutty!

Mike grinned. "Well, why not? I could ask him --"

"Mike, believe me, if he ever had a chance with you, he wouldn't want me anywhere near. It's you he fancies. I couldn't touch you in front of him without putting my life at risk."

Michael shook his head, brow furrowed. "I don't know why you say that, Eric. Terry likes you a lot, he's always done. He's told me --"

"He likes me _now_. He wouldn't like me if he knew what you and I've been getting up to. I'm telling you, he'd go absolutely fucking mad. You know his temper. He'd be so bloody jealous he'd -- well, I'd rather not talk about it anymore, if you don't mind." Eric leaned slightly closer and took Michael's earlobe between his teeth, nipping sharply at it before whispering, "I'm all rested now."

He felt the tension in Michael's body begin to dissipate, and smiled. He ran his tongue soothingly over the spot he had bitten, and then bit it a second time, harder.

Mike said softly, "That hurts." He sighed. "Do it again."

 

*****

 

"Where have you been?" Terry demanded, before he even had the door completely open. "For God's sake, it's almost seven o'clock!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I was, um, writing, and I lost track of time. You know how it is." Michael gave him a sheepish smile, and Terry's irritation began, predictably, to evaporate.

He sighed. "All right, come in. Have you eaten? Alison's away visiting her mother, but I was going to make some sandwiches."

Michael entered, the sleeve of his jacket brushing Terry's arm. He brought with him the smell of cool spring air and soft, brushed suede, and something else that Terry couldn't quite identify but that was equally pleasant. He felt a brief, mad impulse to press his face against Michael's neck and inhale deeply.

Thoughts like that no longer frightened him. They had become so familiar over the years, so much a part of him, that he barely noticed them anymore. He ate, he drank, he breathed, he longed hopelessly for Michael Palin. It was just a fact of life and there was no getting round it. As long as he didn't dwell on it, he could sleep nights.

He made the sandwiches, and he and Michael carried them to the coffee table in front of the sofa, along with a beer for each of them. Terry had to push reams of scattered papers out of the way to find room to set the food down. They took their shoes off and ate as they worked, crumpling pages up and tossing them on the floor, scribbling half-formed ideas down, doodling in margins, licking their fingers, and trying to catch at least a few crumbs before they made their way to the carpet. It was the way they'd always written together, and Terry saw no reason to change just because he was now living with Alison. He'd have the mess cleared up before she got home.

But something was different, nevertheless, something about Michael. They were getting work done, but Mike seemed somehow distracted, not as focused as usual. And he kept _looking_ at Terry. Every time Michael fell silent for a bit, Terry would glance at him and invariably catch Michael glancing back. At first that's all it was, a glance, and Mike's eyes would skitter away from his immediately. But then he noticed that Michael's gaze was lingering. Terry would look up to find his friend frankly staring at him, the familiar and secretly beloved hazel eyes studying his face intently. It was inexplicable, and quite, quite disturbing.

The third time it happened, Terry slammed his pencil down on the coffee table and turned to face Michael squarely. "Look, would you mind telling me what you're bloody staring at? Has my face come out in a rash or something?"

Michael's own face reddened. "I -- no. I was just -- thinking how we'd make you up for the sketch. You know, maybe put face cream on your cheeks, or --"

"You know I hate that bloody stuff," Terry snapped. He was suddenly in an unaccountably bad humour. "It gets all over. I don't mind curlers, but no face cream."

Mike smiled soothingly, as though placating a fussy child. "All right, all right. Just as well. It would get all over me, too."

Terry blinked. "Yes, it would." Michael's words reminded him again that the sketch would require him to lie full-length on top of Mike on a sofa not unlike the one they were sitting on now. He would have to caress Michael's face, run his fingers through Michael's silky hair, beg Michael to take him...

He swallowed. "Perhaps we should have Carol do this."

"Carol?" Michael laughed. "That's ridiculous! She's too -- well, it just wouldn't be funny with her. It'd be dead sexy. We don't want sexy."

"No," Terry said faintly. "No, we most certainly do not." He brightened. "How about Eric?"

"No," Mike said, so quickly and emphatically that Terry gave him a curious look. What on earth was the matter with Mike tonight?

Michael licked his lips, a bit nervously, Terry thought. "It'd be sexy with him, too. I -- I mean -- well, you know how he looks in all the girlie gear. He'd have every bloke in the audience panting for him." Michael's eyes took on a faraway expression. "He looks so..." He shook himself abruptly, clearing his throat. "Besides, he's the poet under the stairs."

Terry made a contemptuous sound. "Oh, anybody could do that. I could do it, and then Eric would be free to --"

"He can't. I mean, he won't. He's told me, he doesn't want to --"

"You've talked to him about the sketch?"

"I haven't -- well, yes. And he agrees with me, you make a much better woman than him. I mean, that kind of woman. You know, the middle-aged type you wouldn't look twice at. I mean, Eric's so pretty..." Mike trailed off, and looked away.

Terry looked closely at him. "Are you drunk?"

Michael gave a breathless little laugh. "Drunk? 'Course not." He gestured at the empty lager can in front of him. "That's all I've had all day. "

"You've not taken anything?"

"No!"

"Then you must be ill," Terry said firmly. "Or just potty. Because you've been behaving in the most peculiar way ever since you got here. All right, I'll be the old bag and Eric can be the poet. Happy now?" He cringed inwardly, but -- well, he was an actor, sod it. He'd just have to be professional about it.

Mike smiled, clearly relieved. "Yes, yes, that's fine. Jolly good."

Terry blinked as a dismaying thought struck him. "You're not ill, really, are you?" he asked softly.

"No, no, I'm well. Let's get on with it."

Terry cleared his throat and picked up his pencil. "Right. What Wordsworth poem do you want to use?"

"Anything but 'Michael.' That'd be a bit precious."

Terry smiled. " 'Tintern Abbey?' 'Strange Fits of Passion?' "

" 'Daffodils.' "

"Right." Terry jotted the title down, then laid the paper and pencil aside. "I think that's got it, then."

"Well, we need to run through it," Michael reminded him.

Terry closed his eyes briefly. "Oh, I don't think so. There'll be time for that later. And Eric's not here, and Alison'll be home any time, and I must clean up, and -- "

Mike cut him off. "Come on, we don't need Eric, his part's not that important. And it'll only take a few minutes. You know we can never tell if it'll work till we've done it."

"Yes, yes," Terry sighed. "All right."

So they ran through it, reading from their notes and improvising around the part of the poet. Terry couldn't help being tense, but it wasn't as bad as he'd expected, and Michael was wonderful, even breaking Terry up at one point with his silly Northern accent and wide-eyed, clueless expressions. It was easy to sidle up to him, run lascivious glances up and down his body, moan appreciatively at his imaginary "torch." It was exciting, too. Especially since they weren't in costume, and Terry didn't have to deal with uncomfortable padding and stuffing and waxy lipstick and a long wig falling in his face, and Michael looked like his normal self, too, which was, in Terry's opinion anyway, heartbreakingly lovely. And they were all alone. No cameras, no audience, no crew, no extra Pythons. He began to enjoy himself.

"Don't you get bored, reading people's poets all day?" Terry took a step nearer Michael, lifted a hand, and ran a finger slowly down Mike's shirt front.

Michael blinked. "Well, you know, sometimes, yeah. Anyway, I'd better be going --"

"Oh, I get bored, too. Nothing to do all day but watch telly and torment the cat and -- dream."

Mike gave him an uncertain smile. "That's good, Tel. We ought to pencil that in -- "

"Isn't there --" Terry pressed closer "-- isn't there anything else you'd rather be doing instead?"

"Well, uh --"

Terry's breath came faster. "Thomas Hardy's in the bedroom." He tugged at Michael's arm. "I'll just show you -- "

"No, I can't touch him, he's a novelist!"

"Oh, he keeps mumbling all night, I lie there in my bed all alone just aching for someone, someone like you, to shut him off... "

Michael laughed aloud, and took his notebook and pencil out of his pocket. "Let's not lose that one --"

"Oh, forget that!" Terry cried, and shoved him backward onto the sofa. Mike landed with a whump, and looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, the tip of his tongue peeking out. The notebook and pencil bounced to the floor.

Terry leapt on him. "Oh, Wombat, Wombat," he moaned, or tried to. The heat of Michael's warm, solid body beneath him burned the lines from his consciousness until he was simply moaning, full stop. It felt incredibly, shockingly, good to lie on top of Mike, to weigh him down, to keep him exactly where he belonged.

Michael's chest was heaving, pressing with delicious firmness against Terry's. His rapid breaths fanned Terry's face. His tongue ran slowly over his lips, moistening them. Terry watched it, mesmerised.

Mike shifted a bit underneath him. Instantly, Terry captured Mike's arms in a bruising grip, pushing his legs slightly apart and pressing all his weight against him.

"You're not going anywhere," Terry said softly.

Michael stared, unblinking, into his eyes. "What'll you do to me if I try?" he murmured.

Terry's mouth went dry. "Whatever I have to," he replied, in a husky voice he barely recognized as his own.

Mike's eyes slid down to Terry's mouth. "Might get a bit rough." He raised his head as far as he could, just far enough to touch his tongue gently to Terry's lower lip. "I can fight."

Terry's eyes closed. "If -- if that's the way you want it." Oh my God, was he really saying these things? Was Michael?

"I don't think you can hold me," Michael whispered. He shoved upward suddenly, wrenching at Terry's hands, slamming their hips together. Terry felt Michael's cock, hard and ready, through the fabric of their trousers.

"Oh, sweet Christ," he breathed.

"I could get up right now," Michael said. "You couldn't stop me." Terry stared at him. Mike's eyes were hot and shining and hungry.

He bucked against Terry again, and Terry gasped, and shoved back. "Stop it, or I'll --"

"What? You'll what?"

Oh, Jesus, he'd never been so desperately hard in his life. He pressed his straining erection against Mike's, and heard Mike's breath hiss harshly between his teeth.

"I'll fuck you. I'll -- I'll pin you down and never let you up, and -- and make you like it." Terry's mind whirled dizzyingly. It was as if he were reciting lines from some script he didn't even know he'd read. "You don't know how long I've wanted to know what you sound like when you come."

Mike's head went back on the cushions. His eyes closed and his mouth opened. "Jesus, Tel, Jesus. Why didn't you say something? I would've -- "

"Shut up!" Terry cried, and tugged frantically at Michael's trouser buttons. "We don't have time to waste, Alison's coming home --"

"Oh, God," Michael moaned. "Oh, God, she might catch us -- she might watch us --"

"She might kill us..." Terry muttered. "Help me with this, damn it!"

Michael's shaking hands joined his, and the trousers and underpants were finally dispensed with. Terry's trousers followed, and he groaned with relief. Before he could remove his underpants, Michael had torn them off and captured Terry's aching erection at the root in an iron grip. Terry gave a strangled cry. "God, don't --"

"Let's wait," Mike whispered urgently. "Let's wait till she gets here. Let's let her see us. She might like it."

Terry gaped at him. "Are you fucking mad? What -- "

"Have you ever been caught out like that? Had someone watch you while you're --"

"No, and I'm not going to start with my bloody wife!" He heard his voice crack pathetically. "Jesus, Mike, please, please, I can't wait. Please, let's --"

Michael closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "Yeah, all right, all right. But next time -- "

Terry grabbed his head and kissed him, hard, grinding their lips together until, with a dull shock, he tasted blood. He tried reflexively to pull back from the red trickle, but Michael's hand fell away from his cock and made its way into his hair, pressing him closer. Mike's tongue scoured his mouth, licking hungrily. Terry's dazzled mind couldn't even determine which of them was bleeding.

Their mouths parted for a moment, as they fought for breath. "Fuck," Michael panted. "I didn't know you'd taste so -- "

Terry laughed a short, gasping laugh. "You taste exactly like I imagined." His voice shook. "So good -- I can't even -- I can't -- "

"You look frightened," Michael said softly.

"No," Terry began automatically, and stopped as Michael cupped his face between warm hands. He felt his cheeks heating under that touch.

"I'm -- I'm just not used to this. I don't know what to -- "

"You want to come in my mouth?" Michael whispered.

Terry could only stare at him.

"I won't bite." Mike laughed, a bit wildly. "And after, you can bite me if you like."

Terry couldn't even take the words in. Instead, he slid off Michael and leaned awkwardly back against the arm of the sofa, feeling horribly exposed, but only for a moment, only for a moment. Because then Mike was with him, having shoved the coffee table aside, kneeling on the paper-strewn carpet between his legs and lowering his head and then, oh Christ, Michael's mouth was sliding down him and it was wet and hot and exactly right, and he was swearing and groaning and fuck it, almost crying, and shoving forward heedlessly, and Mike was sucking so hard, so hard, and Terry thought he would die of the sweetness before he could even come. And then he came.

Michael stayed with him as the spasms died away, swallowing patiently, cleaning him gently, easing him down. When he pulled away and looked up at Terry, he was smiling. If Terry could have moved, he would have kissed Michael's feet.

He couldn't move, though. He couldn't think or speak, either. He was barely conscious.

"Good, isn't it?" Michael said. "I love doing that."

Terry's head wobbled on his neck as he tried to nod.

"Tel." Mike's gentle voice roused him. "Look at me."

Terry did, uncrossing his eyes with difficulty.

"I'm going to bring myself off. I want you to watch."

Terry stared mutely at him as he crawled up onto the sofa. Michael took his still erect prick in his hand and stroked it, slowly and lovingly at first, then harder and harder. Terry watched in fascination as Mike's eyes drifted shut, his mouth opened, his head went back, and he climaxed with a gasp, almost of pain, and a low, choked moan. Terry leaned toward him and kissed his parted lips softly.

Mike breathed hard into Terry's mouth before he drew away. "Couldn't hold out long," he sighed. "Not with you looking at me."

Terry turned his head slowly and gazed wonderingly around the room. It looked exactly the same as always, if slightly messier. There was nothing to indicate that a miracle had just taken place in it.

He looked back and saw Michael getting dressed.

"I'd better be off, it's getting late. I'll help you tidy up, though."

Terry shook his head in an effort to clear it, and rose to find his trousers. "Never mind. I'll do it."

As though he hadn't spoken, Michael bent and began gathering up the crumpled papers. "I suppose this'll make that sketch a bit harder to do, won't it?" He laughed quietly, looking up to meet Terry's eyes. "We'll have to work bloody hard to keep our minds on it."

Terry smiled weakly.

With the room neatened, Mike straightened up and brushed his hands together. Terry looked up from zipping his fly (he'd tucked the torn underpants awkwardly into a pocket) and saw Michael regarding him fondly.

"Tel," he said softly, "I hope you want to do this again."

Terry swallowed before he could speak. "Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, I do."

Michael came to him and wrapped his arms around him, burying his face in Terry's neck and sighing deeply. After a moment he raised his head and pulled back, looking at Terry with twinkling eyes. "I wish you wouldn't keep secrets from me. We could have had a lot more fun if you'd just told me a long time ago."

Terry only nodded. He could still barely believe the evidence of his own senses.

"Next time," Mike whispered, "I promise we'll have more fun. You'll see." He touched the tip of Terry's nose with a finger, and followed it with a tiny kiss. "See you tomorrow. Have a good night's sleep."

Terry watched as Michael picked up his jacket and left. Then he sank back down on the sofa and stared into space.

Not two minutes later, he heard a key in the lock. He turned automatically toward the door and smiled as Alison came in.

"Hullo, love, how's your mum?"

 

*****

 

It was a terrible cliche, and Terry was ashamed of himself for not being more original. But it was the only phrase that seemed appropriate, the one line that ran through his head endlessly.

 _I never knew it could be like this._

He repeated it to himself every time Michael kissed him, every time Michael ran warm hands over his body, every time Michael lowered his head and pulled him in. Every time he heard his own voice pleading Michael for release. Every time he slumped, weak with pleasure, into Michael's arms when they were done. And that one time, especially, when Michael had -- well, he couldn't even remember it without moaning aloud.

He could think of nothing else. He tasted Michael on his lips day and night. He heard Michael's whispered endearments when Alison asked him to pass the sugar bowl. He saw Michael's eyes, Michael's smile, Michael's _cock_ , everywhere he went. He walked around the house, down the street, through the BBC TV Centre replaying their latest tryst on a mental tape loop and ducking quickly into whatever private corner he could find when he feared the memories showed themselves too plainly on his face or at his crotch.

It wasn't at all like falling in love. He'd been in love with Michael since the day they met; he knew what that felt like. It hurt. First it had been a constant stabbing pain that tortured him with longing for a heaven he couldn't enter. Eventually it relented, coiling itself up into a quiet ache that didn't intrude too much except when he was very tired, or very drunk, or very fed up with his life. He had always tried to avoid Michael at those times, for fear of losing control.

He had identified love with that pain for so long he couldn't think of it any other way.

This wasn't like that. This was pure delight, pure ecstasy, pure sex. And sheer astonishment that it was happening. He had no idea _why_ it was happening. He had never detected a trace of anything unconventional in Mike's sexual makeup, and oh, how carefully he'd looked! The Pythons, as a group, were no strangers to the wilder side of life. Graham was unashamedly gay. Eric was (Terry suspected, though he had no proof) adventurous. But Michael -- Michael loved his wife, loved his child, and appreciated, though he didn't encourage, the giggling, eyelash-fluttering girls who asked for his autograph and sometimes sent him nude pictures of themselves. Yet Terry was now embroiled in a consuming affair with nice, quiet, happily married Michael. Who, as Terry's quivering nerve endings could testify, had somehow acquired devastating expertise in the area of homosexual lovemaking. How Michael could have achieved this was something Terry preferred not to dwell on. He was confused enough as it was.

 

*****

 

"God," Terry moaned. "Oh, God."

Michael smiled into the pillow. Terry made lovely noises.

"Mike -- Michael --" Terry's voice was a strained whisper.

"I'm here," he replied, amused.

"You feel -- you feel so --"

"Slow down. We've got time." Why was everyone always in such a bloody rush?

"Can't -- I need to -- "

"You can," Michael said sharply. "Think about something else."

"Mike, please -- "

"Think about cold things." That usually worked with Eric.

He heard a disbelieving sound from behind. "Cold things?"

"Ice. January. Antarctica."

Terry groaned piteously. "Why are you doing this to me? I _love_ you."

Michael shifted a bit, uncomfortably. "I know." He softened his voice. "I know you do. But it's much better this way. You believe me, don't you?"

"Better for whom?" Terry's voice was bitter. "Mike, I can't bear this. I can't. Please!"

Michael sighed and gave up. He liked to hear them beg, but not like this. If it wasn't what they wanted already, he couldn't make them want it.

"All right," he said softly. "Go."

He heard Terry gasp with relief, and felt a kiss land between his shoulder blades. Then he was gasping himself, as Terry pulled out suddenly and then shoved back into him with all his strength. He relaxed deliberately and closed his eyes, riding it out, listening with bemusement to Terry's choked cries, focusing on the deep, hard strokes, the sweet, dark wildness of it. There was never anything disappointing about _that_ , anyway. Being on the other end couldn't begin to compare.

When Terry finished and shakily withdrew from him, he turned over, wincing a bit and unable to keep back a yawn. God knew he didn't mind bruises, but he was so tired these days. It would be interesting to find out how long he could take it.

Terry cuddled against him, head on his shoulder, and sighed a long sigh. Michael lifted a hand and stroked Terry's hair gently. He wasn't ruthless enough. That was the problem. He gave in too easily. But this was _Terry_. How could he be ruthless with him?

"Thank you," Terry whispered.

Mike smiled sleepily. "I didn't do anything."

Terry looked at him with such adoration that Michael had to look away. "You let me fuck you." He caught Mike's chin in his hand and turned it back toward him. "You let me inside."

Michael sighed. "I'd let you do anything. Don't you know that? You could do _anything_ , Tel." If you only wanted to, he thought.

Terry caressed Michael's face. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," Michael said, and closed his eyes. "You didn't hurt me."

 

*****

 

"You bastard," Michael said softly.

Eric paused in the act of removing his black fishnets and garters. "What did _I_ do?"

"You told me about Terry."

"That makes me a bastard, does it?" The corset was proving stubborn, but with a final sharp tug, he got it undone.

"I took you at your word. My fault, I suppose."

Eric glanced in the mirror. Satisfied that he had divested himself of all the trappings of femininity, he set his whip on the dresser and lay down, comfortably naked, next to Mike. "What are you on about?"

"I -- went to bed with him."

"Oh." Eric felt a faint, ridiculous, prickling of jealousy, and pushed it away impatiently.

"Several times."

"Oh." He smiled. "I thought something was going on. When did this start?"

Mike rubbed his eyes tiredly. "That night after you and I talked about it. About three weeks ago?"

Eric nodded and helped himself to a cigarette from the bedside table. "I've only seen him once since then, and I could tell there was something. He was walking about like -- I mean, I spoke to him and he didn't even hear me. Should have known."

Mike nodded glumly.

Eric frowned. "You'll have to do something," he said, and struck a match. "We start filming for the new series in a few weeks. He'll have to come down from the bloody clouds by then."

"That's not the worst of it. It's not -- it's not working." Michael let out a long breath. "He doesn't understand."

"Ah. I see."

"I tried to explain it -- without really explaining it, y'know?"

Eric rolled his eyes.

"Well, I couldn't just come out and say 'Come on, rough me up a bit, hit me, whip me, abuse me, more, more, more!' could I?"

"No, I suppose you couldn't, at that." Eric blew out a column of smoke thoughtfully. "But you have to speak up eventually if you're going to get what you want."

"Didn't have to with you," Michael said. "You just knew."

Eric shrugged. "I can usually tell. Don't know why. 'S not because I like roughing people up. I just like being told what to do." He smiled and kissed Mike's temple. "Not asked. Told. You're good at that." He often marveled at how demanding Michael was in bed, compared with how utterly easygoing he was everywhere else.

"I can't do it with Terry," Mike said softly. "He'd die before he'd do anything he thought would hurt me. I'll have to put a stop to it." He covered his face with his hands. "God, I don't know how."

"Tell him he's not what you need. I mean, tell him gently, but -- "

"I can't! Not _him_."

Eric sighed. Michael hated confrontation.

"Perhaps -- perhaps I could tell him I'm afraid Helen'll find out. Or that I can't live with the guilt. Or -- no, no, that's all bollocks. I've already told him Helen doesn't care as long as it's not women." He closed his eyes despairingly. "Jesus, why did I ever start this?"

"She doesn't, really?" Eric asked.

"What?"

"As long as it's not women, she doesn't care?"

"That's what she said when you and I started."

"You mean you _told_ her when we started?"

"'Course I did," Michael said impatiently. "I always tell her everything."

Eric just looked at him.

"Well, how else could I explain these?" Michael gestured at the yellowing bruises on his arms and chest. "What am I supposed to say? That I'm training for the Olympic boxing team?" He paused. "Even that wouldn't account for the lash marks."

"And she really doesn't mind?"

"No! She understands me." Mike smiled dreamily. "She's wonderful."

"But you don't want her to -- "

"No," Mike said. "I don't like it when a real woman does it."

Eric shook his head in wonder. Ah, the infinitely twisted pathways of human sexuality.

"Well, what did you tell Jonesy about the marks?"

Michael shrugged. "Nothing yet. He hasn't asked."

"Maybe he's guessed."

"I just don't know what to do," Michael murmured. "I can't hurt him. I'd do anything for him. I even fucked him -- " He closed his mouth abruptly, and there was a fraught silence.

Then Eric said, " _You_ fucked _him_?"

Mike licked his lips. "Yeah. Once."

Eric was still for a moment. "Well," he said softly, and reached to balance his cigarette carefully on the edge of the ashtray. "Will wonders never cease."

Michael rolled his eyes. "Come on, Eric. You know I don't like it, I'd much rather be -- "

"Why'd you do it, then?"

"Because -- he asked me to."

"Oh, all a fella has to do is ask, eh?" Eric laughed shortly. "Unless the fella's name is E. Idle."

"Oh, don't get moody!" Michael made an exasperated sound. "You're the one who said jealousy was a bourgeois relic of the unenlightened past."

"So it is." Eric retrieved the cigarette. "It's also fucking _human_."

Mike plumped his pillow up and turned over, putting his back to Eric. "You're not helping."

"All right, all right." Eric closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "Look, if you can't bring yourself to call a halt to it, don't. I mean, so what if you're not gettin' what you really want. You're still having fun, eh? He's fucked you, too, I take it?"

Michael nodded silently.

"Thought so. And you go down on him?"

Another nod.

"And you always get off yourself, one way or another?"

Michael sighed. "Yes."

"Then don't worry about it. You're making him happy, you're gettin' the basics even if it's not the fancy stuff, and -- I'm here to take up the slack." He drew smoke deeply into his lungs. "Jesus. I feel like bloody Dear Abby."

Michael made no reply for a long while. Then, just as Eric was wondering if he'd fallen asleep, he said, "That's what I'll do. It's the only thing to do. I'll just -- compartmentalise." He turned over suddenly and looked Eric earnestly in the eye. "Nothing wrong with that, is there? Nothing wrong with enjoying different things with different people. Is there?"

"Not a thing. Very 1970 of you. And you've been doing a bit of it already, right? With Helen and me."

Michael nodded thoughtfully. "But this is it. No more than three. I've been so knackered these past weeks I can hardly keep my eyes open." As if to prove it, his mouth gaped in a sudden jaw-cracking yawn. "Um. Sorry."

"No need to be," Eric said with a grin. "You're cute when you're sleepy."

Michael smiled. "I'm sorry I got a bit shirty with you before. I'm grateful for the advice." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he kissed Eric's ear gently. "If I wasn't so bloody tired I'd pay you back."

Eric sighed regretfully and thought about Michael's lovely warm mouth and single-minded dedication to whatever task he set himself. "You'll just have to owe me, won't you?"

 

*****

 

"Terry," Michael whispered.

Terry smiled as he drowsed.

"Tel."

He sighed and opened his eyes slowly. His cheek was pressed to Michael's shoulder, and he could feel the pulse beneath it. He had discovered he liked to fall asleep that way, with the gradually slowing rhythm in his ear, and the warm flesh against his, and the soft breath stirring his hair, and the sweet, tired, drained feeling in his loins.

He turned his head slightly and kissed the skin beneath his lips. Michael had tiny freckles on his shoulders. Terry touched one with the tip of his tongue before he spoke.

"I hope you have a good reason for waking me," he murmured. "Have you just had a brilliant idea for a sketch?"

Mike sighed. "I'm afraid not."

"You feel like discussing the failures and abuses of the feudal system, eventually resulting in the Peasants Revolt of 1381?"

"No." Michael looked thoughtful. "Could work that into a sketch, though, perhaps."

"Ah." Terry smiled and closed his eyes. "Then you must want to suck me off again."

He felt Mike's shoulder shake as he laughed. "Actually, no."

Terry shifted his head and looked at him quizzically. "No? Was it something I said?"

"I just wanted to tell you I'm glad we're, y'know, doing this."

Terry smiled broadly. "So am I. Very."

"And I'm sorry for the way I've been behaving."

"How have you been behaving?"

"Oh, come on. You know. I've been moody and irritable and unreasonable and -- "

"That's true," Terry said, with comic suddenness, as though the fact had just occurred to him. "You've been behaving like _me_."

"And -- I've tried to push you into doing things you don't want to do." Michael paused. "Selfishness. That's what it is."

His voice held such a tone of self-recrimination that Terry looked at him in surprise.

"You're not selfish," he said softly. "You just want what you want. Everybody wants something."

Michael's eyes took on a distant expression. "It's not even wanting. It's needing."

"I know. I wish I could give it to you." Terry ran a finger over the bite marks on Mike's chest and thought, not for the first time, that Helen must be a bloody _tigress_.

"I don't care, you know," he said, and smiled as Michael turned his head and looked at him. "I mean, she's your wife. I don't care if it's only women."

Mike blinked twice, opened his mouth as if to speak, and closed it again.

"Well, you don't get jealous of Alison, do you?"

"I -- no."

"'Course you don't. It's a completely different situation with women, isn't it? Actually, I've been thinking I should tell Alison. You know, be modern about it, get it all out in the open. I admit I was a bit frightened at first, but she's a reasonable girl, I think she might take it rather well." Terry frowned slightly. "Mind you, she'd probably expect it to work both ways, though." He shifted a bit, uncomfortably. "Still," he sighed, "I suppose that'd be only fair, don't you think?"

He glanced at Michael as he spoke, and saw him licking his lips nervously. "What's the matter?"

Michael's eyes slid away from him. "You don't care if it's only women?"

"No." Terry shrugged. "If Helen gives you something you need -- " he traced the bruise over Mike's ribcage " -- and it's something I can't give you..." He trailed off and sighed. "You know I want you to be happy."

Michael nodded, silently.

"But no men."

Mike licked his lips again. "No men?"

"No men. No blokes, chaps, guys, lads, people with matching rather than complementary generative organs. I fill that role quite satisfactorily myself."

"Jealousy is a bourgeois relic of the unenlightened past." Michael smiled faintly. "Can't remember where I heard that."

"I am not jealous," Terry said loftily, "and I am most certainly not bourgeois. I prefer to think of it as Darwinian self-interest."

"Well, at least you're not rationalising."

"I mean it." Terry kept his tone as light as he could, though the thought of Mike with another man was simply too excruciating to contemplate. Michael's hands touching some other bloke's body. Michael's lips sliding slowly, slowly down some other bloke's aching cock. Michael writhing, moaning, panting, beneath some other... He gasped, and hastily pushed the lurid pictures out of his mind. The blood pounded suddenly in his groin.

He rolled on top of Michael, straddling him, pressing his stiffening cock against Michael's slack one . He took Mike's face in his hands, and looked him in the eyes. "Don't ever do that to me," he said in a husky whisper. "Not ever." _But if you do_ , came a silent, unbidden voice in his head, _let me watch_.

Michael let out his breath in a soft, forced-sounding laugh. "Why would I? Why would I want to?" His eyes darkened, and his voice thickened. "God, you feel good. Move a bit."

Terry's heart speeded. He rubbed slowly against Michael's prick and felt it throb and swell. He watched Mike's eyes fall shut, saw his lips part, his face flush, his chest heave. Christ, he was beautiful. He wondered how many other people thought so. He knew lots of girls fancied Michael, sent him their pictures, gave him their phone numbers, tried to find out where he lived. That didn't bother Terry; he'd always found it amusing. But maybe a lot of guys fancied Mike too. Maybe a lot of them would have given their eyeteeth to be where he was now. Terry squeezed his eyes shut and thrust harder. Michael gasped, and met him with a shove of his own.

Eric had shown him a letter he'd got once, months ago. He was popular with the girls too, of course. He got loads of naughty fan mail. But this one... Some bird had written him, saying she wanted to fuck him and Michael. She said she couldn't decide between them, that she loved them both, that she dreamt about them both touching her, both in bed with her, one of them suckling each of her breasts -- all sorts of insane things. Then she said if they didn't want to fuck her, she'd be happy to watch them fuck each other. He remembered his knees had gone weak just reading that bloody letter. Eric had laughed and said he was going to put it in a scrapbook and read it whenever he needed "inspiration."

He wanted to see them do it, Terry thought faintly. He didn't know why. Just the idea of it was maddening, infuriating, painful. But he wanted to see it, even though he was afraid of what he might do if he saw it. He might pull Eric's blond hair out by the handful. He might slap Michael's beautiful, beloved face over and over again, and cry while he did it. He might slide into bed with them and kiss Michael all over his body, every inch of skin that he could reach, while Eric fucked him. He might just lie there and watch, watch Michael's eyes while Eric did anything to him, anything he wanted, anything at all, to see if those eyes looked the same for another man as they did for him right now. If they did, it would hurt terribly, but he knew he wouldn't be able to look away.

Michael pulled him closer, gripping him around the waist hard enough to leave bruises. He put his lips to Terry's ear and whispered, "Come on, faster, come on..." Terry obeyed without a thought, groaning at the feel of Mike's hot breath in his ear. Somehow, somehow, he had to talk Michael into it, make him promise to do it, tell him that he hadn't meant that he couldn't be with any other men, not really, only that there were -- conditions. Michael had tried to get Terry to _hit_ him, for God's sake. Surely he couldn't object to doing something Terry wanted. Something so simple.

He thought about it again -- Michael and Eric kissing, touching, whispering things to each other that he couldn't hear, moaning in ecstasy -- and he cried out and let go, sinking his teeth hard, harder, into Michael's shoulder as he came.


End file.
